I've Been Tagged . . .

So, Faithy's been gently pokin at me for a while to get this "meme" thing done - I'm not sure I even really know what "meme" means yet - me me? Coming up with "8 random facts" about yourself is slightly nerve-wracking - the attempt to strike a satisfactory balance between humor, candor, and brevity, while avoiding self-pity, unnecessary embarrassment, and being downright boring! So here goes . . . .

P.S. these are not in any order - aka #1 is no more exciting than #8 and vice versa


8. I enjoy being in the city (go Brooklyn!) but can't wait to move to somewhere I can see the stars.

7. I love belting showtunes and pop songs a lot more than I actually let on in every day life. (I tend to reserve such occasions for karaoke bars and when I've got the house to myself.)

6. I love the smell of skunk.

5. I want a pet mouse/rat whom I could name Octavia E. after one of my favorite authors.

4. I am becoming more and more girly in my old age.

3. I am marrying my sweetheart this coming October.

2. My two younger sisters took me on a surprise mission to get my ears pierced (for the first time) on my 23rd birthday - I was nervous sitting in the chair, it pinched and hurt a little, and I love them!

1. I am pretty lazy - I need a kick in the butt to make the time for the things that I love (dance, writing, singing, exercise).


Rules:
1. Each player starts with 8 random facts about themselves.
2. People who are tagged write a blog post about their 8 random things and post the rules.
3. At the end of your post you need to tag 8 people and post their names.
4. Don’t forget to leave them a comment and tell them they’re tagged, and to read your blog.


Whew! So I am breaking the rules because I don't know that many people with blogs! I tag Jesse and John because they are my roomies. Beyond that, I don't know, can I tag through facebook or myspace?

I am pretty internet illiterate - that should be #9!

Billy the Kid

William Bonney, to his mother.

Billy, to the ladies.

Billy the Kid to all those who knew his legend.

Billy burned out his eyes in the southwest wasteland, cut the teeth of his gun on the lawmen, indians, old friends. Got so good he knew how to shoot to kill a man, to make it quick, or not.

Explode it under the heart, stops the breathing even as they fall.

I think I might be Sallie on the Chisum ranch, watching Billy come and go, my barefeet blowing in the wind on the porch, biscuits and gravy and black midnight coffee for my friend, the outlaw, my man and I watching Billy, silent as he comes, a few new holes in him, silent as he goes, patched up some. We dont' ask where or what he does between waving to the back of his horse and greeting the front. No judgements; just Billy. He breathes between his teeth; takes his hat off indoors.

Lots been written about you, Billy the Kid;

here's one more.

Things I Don't Want to Forget

walking home after a long day of work down our dirty, pot-holed, dead-end street; not realizing my head had been cast down til I held it up and saw, all in one glance, our landlady's garden oasis, the stoop, dripping with the greens and purples and reds and yellows of impatients, nasturnium, pansies, asyllium, palms, and one big red crab-shaped sandbox . . . .


that first glance of the cherry tree esplanade in full bloom at the Brooklyn Botanical Gardens as Jesse led me up the winding path . . . .


yawning tulips, striped, curled, raw-edged, smooth, always open, never uniform . . .


the old jewish man, hat in his hand, pausing under a smallish tree; the white of his hair and the black of his coat perfectly matching the tree's white blossoms and darkly contrasting limbs and trunk; i hid on the other side of the tree, pretending to smell a fluffy branch in order to watch him blending into the tree; when he was gone, i walked back and stooped to read the carefully placed tag: Mary Potter Flowering CrabApple . . .


the young woman, girlish with her camera, back up against an exploding cherry tree in her pink skirt, black top - she looked like a cherry tree herself, and i offered to take her picture for her . . .


the sight of jesse conducting an as yet uncomposed symphany of scents inside the lilac grove; his nose and cheeks buried in the white, purple, pinkly curled trees . . .






the raw, raw green of the newest trees . . .